


The Effort to Reunify the Self

by Enisy



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Love/Hate, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: Have you secretly, in your heart of hearts, longed for a Kira and Dukat Soulmate AU? Are you repulsed and horrified by the idea of a Kira and Dukat Soulmate AU? In either case, I’ve got you covered!A series of vignettes about falling for the person you hate most in the world.
Relationships: Dukat/Kira Nerys
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

_**mandala** [ **muhn-** dl-uh]. **noun**._

  1. Oriental Art _. a schematized representation of the cosmos … a concentric configuration of geometric shapes, each of which contains an image or an attribute of a deity._
  2. _(in Jungian psychology) a symbol representing the effort to reunify the self._



Kira was not allowed to play in the northern end of the Singha refugee camp. That was a rule her father had laid down, and for the first few years of her life, she did not think much of it; when your primary occupation is making mud cakes, one patch of dirt is as good as the next. She and her brothers squatted for hours a day, and when they weren’t squatting they were sneaking – tracking down their kin with foul projectile in hand, while drapes and curtains formed palatial domes over their heads – until the mud cakes gave way to springball at the age of five.

One time – and one time only – their rebellious streak kicked in and they _did_ venture to the forbidden northern end of the camp. The sun was like a giant flashlight pointed at Singha’s petri dish, and the air shimmered with heat. At first Kira didn’t see what the big deal was. The area appeared to be just as dusty, crowded and unkempt – replete with the same quantities and types of garbage – as their neighborhood. But then her eyes fell on the monitor.

She’d seen its like before: Vedek Fala had brought a PADD to class a couple of times, to show them videos of Bajoran monasteries. But this one was _huge_ , the faces on it magnified to proportions fit for celestial beings, not Bajorans… and _certainly_ not Cardassians. Kira would have spat on the monitor if it weren’t so high up.

She recognized the voice of the man on screen: he spoke occasionally in those public broadcasts the subspace radio outside their home picked up. A caption identified him as Gul Hadar.

“Look, Nerys, a gizzard!” Pohl held his dubious treasure aloft, and that put their undertaking into perspective. Much ado about nothing. She kicked a stone, feeling ornery.

By the time they returned home, news of their escapade had already reached their father. All three of them got a lecture, but Kira personally received a backhanded _slap_ , so hard and sudden it set her ears ringing.

Her father had never struck her before.

“What did you see on the monitor?” he yelled, shaking her by the shoulders. Kira started crying. “Damn it, Nerys, what did you _see_?”

“Gul,” she hiccupped, “Gul – Gul –”

“ _What_?”

“Gul Hadar.”

Her father had been drawing himself up, but upon hearing those words he subsided, losing both height and mass, practically mummifying, and he hugged her to his chest and sighed: “ _Never_ do that again.”

They did not stray from their neighborhood a second time.

Springball became fiercer and more competitive as their skills improved. It was incredible how much energy they could generate, on a daily basis, from a few measly bowls of soup. Other children from the camp joined in their games sometimes – especially Unyold, who had the same mark of the Prophets as Reon: a jumja leaf. Hers was plainly visible on her forehead, while Reon’s was more discreetly placed, on his left hip. The adults exulted over this piece of serendipity (soulmates born close together were rare in the extreme), although the pair had done nothing to earn it and, in fact, seemed pretty grossed out by it.

Kira’s own mark flaunted on her wrist: a mandala. It was okay. People looked at her funny when they saw it for the first time, but it could have been worse – Trowa’s mark was a _barrowbug_.

The subspace radio always played in the background while the children jumped, dove, slammed and parried – a regular, steady, comforting murmur. Gul Hadar’s tenor cropped up every now and then, and Kira shivered in recollection of that awful incident: the talking-to, the slap, the fear contorting her father’s visage. More often, though, it was the Prefect of Bajor who spoke – Gul Dukat – cranking out statistics that were supposed to prove circumstances had ameliorated under his leadership. She hated him, because everyone hated him, because he was the reason her friends had to go away and her father worked in the mines and they were hungry all the time. Nevertheless, when he spoke, Kira would often incline her ear to the radio, feeling a drowsy sense of contentment trickle through her limbs.

She liked his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so enamored by my own prompts for [Id Pro Quo 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/idproquo2020/profile) that I decided to tackle one of them myself. It was supposed to be a lark, but it’s kind of turned into the Roc. (Rest assured I’m still working on my other stories, though!)
> 
> FYI, rating will jump to M or E at a later point.
> 
> There is a canonical inconsistency in Kira’s upbringing: she says in _Shadowplay_ that she grew up in the Singha refugee camp, playing springball with her brothers (“There wasn’t much else to do”) – but in _Wrongs Darker Than Death or Night_ , her father indicates they moved out of there when Kira was three, as a result of Meru’s “sacrifice.” For the present story I’m fanwanking that Kira’s family did move out of the refugee camp, but Meru fell out of grace after a couple of years and they had to move back. (In which case, Dukat would be lying about him and Meru being lovers for seven years; if I have to choose between Kira lying and Dukat lying, I’ll go for the latter. ;)) Do let me know if I’m missing something, though!


	2. Chapter 2

Kira’s first assignments in the Shakaar resistance cell were grunt work: patching hulls, buying ammo, tallying weapons, washing bandages. Very occasionally, she got to do a bigger job – one that was uniquely suited to a twelve-year-old: crawling through a vent, sweet-talking a pedophile, or skulking around a place only children were suffered to skulk – but that was the exception, not the rule. Kira didn’t mind the drudgery; she knew every little bit helped.

Then, nary four months in, her superiors threw her in at the deep end.

“An assassination?”

Kira rubbed her arm nervously, her fingers hitching at the bangle she wore under her sleeve. (Gift from her father, which she habitually rolled over her mark now. The mandala made her fellow Bajorans uncomfortable, she could tell: the unbelievers and the iconoclasts, those who thought her too pious, and those who thought her not pious enough.)

“That’s right.” Edon crossed his arms. “A delegation from Central Command is coming to inspect the Glyrhond camp, so a lot of prominent Cardassians will be making their way there in the next few weeks. Our original target was Gul Pirak, but sources tell us we can aim bigger for this one. All the way to the top. Gul _Dukat_ is going to be present.” He clapped Kira’s shoulder in a warm, collegial manner, so she flushed. “We discussed this among ourselves, and we all agreed… we want you there, Nerys. You’ve gone a long way these past four months; you’re quick on your feet, cool under pressure, and a _damn_ good shot.”

All too soon, the hand was withdrawn from her shoulder; Kira felt sad, bereft.

“Will you do it?”

“For Shakaar,” she breathed, referring to the man as much as the cell, “I will do anything.”

And that was how Kira found herself prostate on a rough, pebbled, clammy sandbar, squinting into the light as it played rainbows on the water (for Gul Dukat was expected to take the scenic route to the camp). The river thinned out at this point, and there was a landing pad just beyond it. Kira cradled her rifle – grounding herself in the solid, cupped feel of its hilt – and did not shake. Hit and run, she reminded herself, this was a hit and run. Her only task was to make the shot. Klin, who had to eliminate Dukat’s security detail, lay flat on his stomach at her side, while Lorit and Lupaza hung farther back, keeping tabs on their surroundings, ready to call off the mission if needed.

An hour passed. Their target was late. (Klin was recycling some of his corniest jokes, like “What’s the difference between a Klingon and a Cardassian cook?”)

Two hours. (“The Cardassian was _born_ with the spoon stuck in his forehead!”)

Silence.

Kira’s breath was coming out in clouds that held their form for several seconds. The trees stooped slightly in the petulant breeze, while the air sweetened like spoilage. It was drizzling. She was cold.

Three.

As the runabout finally, _finally_ came into view, Kira clutched Klin’s arm. A sudden, previously unexamined problem had occurred to her: “How will I recognize him?”

“You’re not serious.“ Klin struggled to bring his lower jaw into alliance with the upper. “You’ve never seen _Gul Dukat_? His face is plastered on every camp monitor!”

“But –”

But there was no time to debate: the ship floated down to the landing pad and half a dozen grim, armored Cardassians piled out. Which one was he? Her crosshairs panned over their scaly, mottled faces, as if some quirk of expression, some twist of lip or lameness of eye, might give him away. _Which one?_ “ _Left_ ,” hissed Klin, and her rifle swung to a tall, thin, middle-aged Cardassian, who was looking in her direction, as if he could sense her – but whose shoulders were reassuringly slack. He had sophisticated features and tons of presence, like he had personally drafted the laws of nature and knew for a fact that all celestial bodies moved around him. Incongruously, Kira saw a Bajoran pledge bracelet on his arm. She saw, too, a discoloration on his long neck: a black wound – or maybe…

As soon as she’d identified the mark, her pagh flipped belly-up, like an animal signaling its submission. Meanwhile, her mind was screaming “NO!”

No no no no no no no –

A tempest, a shipwreck, and she, a broken castaway dogpaddling to the shore. It all made sense now: her sheltered upbringing, the monitor ban, the strange looks she’d been getting from cradle up. Kira knew it was blasphemy – she knew she shouldn’t do it – but she proceeded to bargain with the Prophets on the spot, pledging a thousand bars of latinum, her uncle’s fattest pylchyk, and (paradoxically) both lifelong celibacy and her firstborn. Not him. Not him. Not him. _Anyone_ but him.

“Nerys,” Klin gave her a jab, “ _now_.”

Of course – why even involve the Prophets in what was clearly a mortals’ dispute? There was no need! The inside of Kira’s wrist burned as she lined up man and weapon. Her sternum ached, as well. She felt the strange intimacy a sniper naturally conceives for their target – the sense of shared time, shared breath – but deeper, _worse_.

Kira’s thumb was on the trigger. Gul Dukat’s head was in her sights.

And then it wasn’t.

The moment come and gone.

Kira dropped her rifle, knelt down in the bushes and made a valiant effort to throw up, gagging and coughing and discharging drool in brittle, ropelike strands, but her stomach was empty, as it had been for years. _She_ was empty now, too – he’d hollowed her out.


	3. Chapter 3

She was extra-cautious with her choice of clothing after that incident. More bangles. Long sleeves. Jackets, even though many of her mission sites were sweltering hot, adjusted to Cardassian physiology. As she boiled within her wardrobe, a tongue of fire probed at her heart, too, filling it with loathing and self-pity. Some nights, when Kira was feeling particularly masochistic, she tried to imagine what it would be like, having a Cardassian moving over her, pale like a deep-sea fish and crenellated everywhere. High-pitched sonic showers couldn’t get her clean afterwards.

Fiddo Yaavor came into her life around that time. He was a cousin of Furel but nothing like him: more gifted in every respect (looks, smarts, luck, Kalevian montar), yet less ambitious, content to play tivara all day and gawk at grazing cattle. She didn’t agree with his attitude, but she liked being within its firing range: it relaxed her. Their bodies collided at least once a week, over their clothes.

The last time – when Kira had resolved to take this to the next stage and get it over with – they were halfway through a lip tussle when she asked him about his mark.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he leered, and captured her mouth in another sloppy kiss.

But Kira broke off again, seconds later, in order to ask, “What do you think of them?”

His eyes were foggy with unconsummated lust. “What?”

“The marks – do you really believe they’re the work of the Prophets?”

“Well, who else? Why are you asking this, Nerys? The marks are clearly mentioned in Horran’s Eighth Prophecy.”

“And what does that say?”

“I don’t –”

“It says, _Who bears your shape will bear your pagh, and they will know you, and where the road forks you will go down the same path_. But that could be about anything! A twin sibling could also ‘bear your shape’ – or an artist – or a Changeling.”

He sighed, patting her hair affectionately. “Then how do you explain the fact that the marks only manifest on Bajorans, and aliens living on Bajor?”

“The marks don’t need to originate from the Prophets – they could be the work of the Pah-Wraiths,” said Kira, speaking quickly, her words rushing ahead of her mental leaps, suffixes tripping over prefixes. “How would we be able to tell? I think we put too much faith in them, Yaavor. They may be showing us _one_ possible destiny out of many. They may even be assigned at random, and soulmates just _think_ they are compatible with each other because they’ve been conditioned to do so, like a self-fulfilling prophecy –”

“Nerys,” said Yaavor, laughing, “relax. I don’t expect you to fill my void, or bond your soul with mine, or any of that storybook nonsense. Let’s just have a good time and see where we go from there.” He smiled reassuringly. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled back, relieved.

Their clothes flew off like bursts of fireworks, in as many colors. Yaavor clearly liked what he was seeing, and so did Nerys; she blinked up at him from under her eyelashes, ran a finger over his protruding ribs. She couldn’t think straight through the haze of desire, or she might have predicted what came next – as he rubbed his hands up and down her arms – and taken the necessary precautions – as the bangle slid down almost to her joints.

“Wait – that mandala – you’re –” All of a sudden, Yaavor sprang off the bed, comically aroused for all his righteous indignation. “You whore!”

“Yaavor!”

“Have you already _been_ with him?” He was tugging his clothes on as quickly and single-mindedly as he’d taken them off; it was like watching a holonovel in reverse. And he was shouting… all sorts of horrible things. “Do you enjoy sucking the Prefect’s cock while he despoils your land? _Huh_? While he works us to an early grave? Is that how you get your kicks?” He gestured expansively, as if her sin was too vast to convey. “I bet your cunt is already rubbed raw from Cardie scales and ridges – Prophets! And you would have me _fuck_ you.”

Kira’s eyes were wet, but in her heart she was burning.

The door slammed. “Traitor!”

Kira didn’t give up. She succeeded in losing her virginity, eventually, to a Bajoran smuggler twice her age (she kept her jacket on this time). She chased up that encounter with a maudlin poet type who composed odes to her pectorals, and a childhood friend, who smelled and tasted of the kava root he habitually chewed. Even more than the bombings and the supply line breaches and the demonstrations thousands of people strong, _this_ , to Kira, felt like a victory over Cardassia: sticking it to the Prefect of Bajor, thumbing her nose at him, inwardly shouting “In your face!”

That encounter with Yaavor, however, had soured her on the whole business. Once she was satisfied she’d made her point to Gul Dukat (never mind that he didn’t even know she existed), Kira dismissed her suitors in summary fashion. She fell back on her muscles and fantasies, gnawing on her pillow, stealing a pang from moonbeams, blood, teeth, and the warped, orgasmic terror on Cardassian faces just before her phaser fired.

Sex was the bailiwick of better creatures.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or to just say hi!


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